’ The girl held out her hands. She fluttered her eyelashes, and adopted the soulful tone that served her well at times. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. “That’s not working so well for you, is it?” She looked at him sheepishly, bringing a Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe away the excess. I awaken easily.
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